Chapter 12: A New Blade
For a long, tense moment, Shuichi Mayumi simply stared. He hadn't wanted the prey delivered to his doorstep.
The shrill mental voice of the Onigarasu finally pierced his reverie. "Eat, My Lord! Why don't you eat?"
The ghost crow had flown back, its two clones dragging the bloodied, unconscious form of the genin Makoto. A gruesome trail of blood smeared the ground behind them. Shuichi's mind raced. How will the cleanup crews explain that tomorrow?
He was genuinely shocked. You brought it back… to me? Are you trying to get me captured so you can take over? He glanced around the still-deserted alley. If anyone had seen this…
Shuichi fixed the crow with a cold, silent glare and activated his mind-reading ability, diving into the creature's simple thoughts.
'Why isn't My Lord eating? Is the presentation wrong?'
'Maybe it's unappetizing? Too damaged? Does he prefer whole prey?'
'Ah! That must be it! How foolish of me! Of course the great Lord wouldn't eat scraps!'
'He must be angry. Did I fail him?'
Shuichi's expression darkened. So it wasn't malice, just profound stupidity. He retracted his earlier assessment. The crow and Dry Arrow were equally idiotic; the crow was just better at pandering.
"You," Shuichi's voice cut through the crow's mental panic. "Why did you bring him to me?"
Onigarasu's crimson eyes brightened, sensing a chance to redeem itself. "My Lord is my creator, my sire! This humble one offers tribute! If this one displeases you, I will fetch another! Whole and fresh!"
"…That won't be necessary." Shuichi pinched the bridge of his nose. The crow's little stunt had already raised an alarm. Going for another 'fresh' catch now would be an outright declaration of war on Konoha. The crow might evade chunin, but a jounin or a specialized tracker? It would be captured, dissected, and lead them right back to him.
"Do not hunt within the village again tonight. Leave Konoha's borders before dawn." He issued the order with finality, feeling a profound weariness. Managing subordinates is exhausting.
"Yes, My Lord!" The crow bowed its head in its avian way. The two clones holding Makoto dissolved into droplets of dark blood, which flew back and absorbed into Onigarasu's body. With powerful wingbeats, it shot back into the night sky and vanished.
Utterly unreliable.
His gaze fell to the young shinobi left crumpled on the ground. And why did you leave the evidence?
This boy… his performance had been notable. Unlike his panicked companion, he'd kept his head, made the sacrificial play to save his friend. A pity that friend was now crow food. This one had survived, against the odds. He was probably in the hospital now, wracked with guilt.
Or… he could be right here.
A new idea, cold and practical, took shape. Transforming this one wouldn't cost much—less than the crow, certainly. And he couldn't abide the thought of two friends separated by such a trivial thing as death. He was, in his own way, a sentimentalist.
He knelt beside the boy, whose breathing was shallow but steady. Gripping his chin, Shuichi turned the face towards him. The genin had protected his head well during the onslaught; his features were intact, marred only by smears of blood from being dragged. Clear brows, a strong jawline—handsome, in a youthful way.
"Pleasant-looking," Shuichi mused. "Shouldn't end up like Dry Arrow." If a youth like this turned into a bloated monstrosity, he'd have serious doubts about the authenticity of his 'Demon King Template.'
Seeing the boy's precarious state, he discarded the violent method of injection. It would be a waste if he died mid-transformation.
Instead, the nail on his right index finger elongated, sharpening to a razor point. With clinical precision, he drew it across his own left wrist. Thick, dark blood welled forth, not dripping freely, but flowing with a viscous purpose. He held his wrist over the worst of the boy's wounds, letting the cursed blood seep directly into torn flesh and exposed capillaries.
The demonic essence soaked in, a dormant catalyst. When enough had been transferred, Shuichi willed the wound on his wrist to seal, wiping away the residue.
On the ground, the boy's chest rose with a deeper breath. His visible wounds began to knit together at an impossible rate. His skin flushed a deep, angry red. Tendons and veins, dark as old wine, bulged and writhed beneath the surface, snaking up his neck and across his cheeks.
A low groan escaped his lips. His fists clenched, knuckles white, jaw locked against the agony. His body didn't bloat or distort. Instead, his frame seemed to tighten, lean muscle defining itself with stark clarity beneath the skin, transforming him into a compact, powerfully built figure.
His black hair lengthened rapidly, spilling down to his waist. The color began to leach from the roots, replaced by a hint of crimson that deepened, saturated, and finally solidified into a vibrant, shocking magenta. The color cascaded down the entire length until his hair was a waterfall of unnatural red.
Next, red markings—like stylized, bleeding maple leaves—bloomed across his skin. They spread from the sites of his old injuries, the places where the crow clones had pecked and torn. A permanent, artistic map of his suffering.
The connection snapped into place in Shuichi's mind. He felt the new presence, a quiet, focused knot of power. He carefully scoured away the remnants of the boy's human past—the name, the friendships, the fear. A clean slate.
Consciousness returned. The boy's eyes—now a piercing, icy blue—opened. He pushed himself up smoothly, his movements economical and controlled. His gaze found Shuichi. There was no fear, no confusion. Only a cold, assessing clarity. A faint, palpable aura of lethal intent emanated from him, not directed at Shuichi, but simply present, like the chill before a frost.
He dropped to one knee without prompting, his head bowed slightly, his right fist placed over his heart in a gesture of fealty. "I greet you, My Lord."
His voice was calm, devoid of tremor or hesitation. Not like Dry Arrow's cowering, nor the crow's anxious fawning. This one was… composed. Serene.
But what lies beneath that calm? Shuichi probed his thoughts, expecting ambition, confusion, or hunger.
Instead, he found a mind already analyzing its new state: 'Strength increased. Senses sharpened. Regenerative capacity confirmed. The blood connection is absolute. Must assess weaknesses. Must grow stronger.'
A power-obsessed pragmatist. Obsessed with efficiency, with capability. Shuichi looked at the youth—the magenta hair, the crimson maple-leaf patterns etched into his skin like tattoos of violence.
"From now on," Shuichi declared, the name coming to him as he looked at the scarlet markings, "you are 'Momiji'. The Crimson Maple."
The newly named Momiji remained kneeling, a silent, deadly blade now waiting in its scabbard. A far more promising asset than the first two. Shuichi allowed himself a small, cold smile. The night, despite its complications, had yielded interesting results.
(End of Chapter)
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